


The Inexpressible

by TheLifeOfEmm



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Ceiling of Amber derivative, Dubious Consentacles, I don’t know why I wrote this but now y’all have to read it, M/M, Possession, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, lite body horror, mutual dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 23:56:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21291263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLifeOfEmm/pseuds/TheLifeOfEmm
Summary: “Hush,” his captor rumbles. Large hands hold theCapitaine’swrists to the edge of the raft, even as his legs dangle helplessly in the water. “It will go better for you not to speak.”Javert grimaces, clenching his jaw, but says nothing further. There is something the matter with Jean Valjean.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 3
Kudos: 38
Collections: The Great Valvert Tentacle-Off





	The Inexpressible

**Author's Note:**

> Aka and I are back on our bullshit again, only this time we dragged enough people down with us to warrant a whole collection 😂
> 
> This is tentacle porn with the thinnest veneer of plot. I have no excuses.

Javert’s head hits the deck with a crack, and he must stifle a grunt of pain as the creature bears down over top him. 

“You,” Javert begins, but a finger brushes his lips ever so slightly in warning. 

“Hush,” his captor rumbles. Large hands hold the _ Capitaine’s _ wrists to the edge of the raft, even as his legs dangle helplessly in the water. “It will go better for you not to speak.”

Javert grimaces, clenching his jaw, but says nothing further. There is something the matter with Jean Valjean.

He has known as much for days, ever since the siren told him of a deep sea cave he found whilst diving, filled with water so devoid of light that his eyes could not penetrate even an inch. Valjean’s words were haunted, furtive, and in the time since he has only grown more so, as self-contained as an oyster. Throughout, Javert has had no choice but to wait and see what might come of it; well, now he has his answer.

Valjean’s face is inches from his own, so Javert can observe it plainly when the siren’s pupils engorge and expand, first absorbing his iris, but then pushing quickly beyond its boundaries until his eyes are black in their entirety. Somehow, those two voids can shape Valjean’s expression still; at present, the emotion they communicate is one of a deep and ancient hunger. 

Then, something brushes his leg. 

It does not feel the same as the fish tail which Javert knows to lurk below the surface. It is longer, thinner—he might have mistaken it for an arm had not Valjean also been holding his wrists above his head. Yet a moment later, it returns again, twining over his thigh, tracing the shape of his knee, sliding along his calf with improbable dexterity. 

Javert is dimly aware of the same thing happening to his other leg, but the sensation is so foreign that he does not realize he is caught until after it is too late. It is only when the tip of the strange appendage begins to explore the sensitive part of his foot that Javert jerks—and finds that he can scarcely move. At the same time, a thousand round suckers grab all at once onto his skin, no longer exploring, but tasting, possessing. 

Javert has never been a man to spook easily. Yet as the siren—and the _ Capitaine _ questions now whether that is quite the right word—mouths along his ear, murmuring his name like a reverberation in his chest, Javert feels the first flutters of panic setting in. It is not long until he is struggling in truth, twisting and straining, flailing his legs in a desperate bid for freedom. If anything, the fleshy coils only tighten their grip, holding him immobile in the water, and Javert finds his thoughts turn toward the Kraken and other titans of the deep. What madness did Valjean carry back with him from the dark places in the world?

As though following the direction of his thoughts, Valjean chuckles lowly.

“Relax.” The word emerges in a sibilant hiss. “This one will grow to like it, and so shall you.”

A terrible comprehension crashes over Javert like a wave. He is about to reply, to demand that this Presence leave them both well enough alone, when another tentacled arm snakes across his belly and curls around his waist. It holds him close as Valjean rocks against the fork of his legs, and the groan that rises in Javert’s throat is nearly visceral as it tears out of him. 

“J-Javert -” It is the siren’s voice which escapes Valjean’s lips this time, made tight with uncertainty. Javert can only imagine what it must be like to be betrayed so by one’s own body; before he can think better of it, he is replying, murmuring reassurances. 

“It is alright,” he says, though they both know it is not. “It doesn’t hurt.”

As if to contradict him, the limbs squeeze that much tighter—and yet, the _ Capitaine _ still does not know that he can quite call the sensation pain. He is held taut, restrained by wrist and ankle, feeling the slide of Valjean’s body against his stomach. The situation should be humiliating, _ is _ humiliating, and distantly it occurs to him that of all the ways he might have died out here he never imagined it would be like this—but the pulse thrumming high and fast under his jaw is not the product of fear.

As though a great weight is pressing upon his spine, Valjean bends forward, until all traces of reluctance disappear beneath a curiously blank facade. Javert knows the strength in the arms which hold him fast, knows it is the same in the transfigured body which holds the both of them hostage, and thinks that this is a creature that could break him. But Valjean does not seem inclined to do so, at least not just yet; instead, the _ Capitaine _ can feel that there are other limbs still searching for purchase—he cannot pin a guess on their number, except to say that at times they move all together and separately at others, testing each contour and jutting edge of his body.

The slick slide of an appendage up over his navel is enough to draw a choked noise of surprise from Javert’s throat. It is almost ponderous as it creeps along, slowly inching its way up his torso, feeling out his ribs and stomach and the hard line of his sternum. Javert’s breath quickens as the bloated suckers slide over a nipple, and at the same time another questing limb discovers the smooth, unmarked curve of his buttocks. The narrow tip teases at his cleft, not quite giving what his body now requires, and it takes all of Javert’s willpower not to squirm, for he knows that would only encourage it.

No sooner has he thought as much than he feels something else crawling up his neck; they are everywhere now, these devouring limbs, and Javert thinks that this is not a metaphor, that he will indeed be swallowed up. It is overwhelming, too many touches when usually the _ Capitaine _ will permit none at all. He cranes his head away as the suckers inch up the line of his jaw, covering his throat with their sticky effusions. Soon, however, there is no escape; the purplish appendage, as dark and soft as a ripe plum, slides across his mouth, muffling any cry he might make of pain or distress. 

Against his lips, the arm is surprisingly warm as though it pulses with Valjean’s own blood, despite that it surely belongs to an atrocity. It fills his mouth with the taste of salt and bitterness and some third thing that he cannot quite name. There is a part of him that would taste more, would swallow it down until he can put a name to it at last; that realization is perhaps the most terrifying of all.

Powerless though he is in the monster’s grasp, even Javert cannot deny the hardness of his prick between their bodies, nor can he think of anything but how it might be better were Valjean to give a little more into reckless abandon. He opens his mouth, perhaps intending to egg the siren on in spite of himself, but all that happens is the tentacle slips further inside until it presses against his teeth and tongue. As it does so, Valjean gives a sort of shudder, a tremulous quiver that at once brings their bodies closer together and causes his fingers to flex where they are wrapped around Javert’s wrists. It is both what Javert wants and not nearly enough; it does, however, inspire in him an idea.

A flush spreads over Javert’s face—if he could have seen himself even a week ago, he might have died of shame—but nevertheless he opens his mouth wider yet. Valjean understands; or perhaps it is that the tentacle itself understands, possessing some alien sentience of its own. It takes the invitation for what it is, and the narrowest end inserts itself properly between his lips. The corners of the _ Capitaine’s _ mouth stretch as it crawls deeper inside, towards the back of his throat; there comes a moment when Javert fears he may gag, the weight and size of the thing an unfamiliar intrusion. Yet soon enough, he is laving gracelessly at it, tracing unfamiliar whorls of suckers with his tongue, and the limb twitches and curls in pleasure.

Aloud, the siren groans; possibly the sound is Javert’s name, but Valjean’s voice is too wrecked to be certain. Yet Javert raises his head until they lock eyes, and then with some deliberation he swallows. The workings of his mouth cause Valjean to gasp and tremble; the siren pushes his face into the crook of Javert’s neck, at first in desperation and then with that earlier, bottomless hunger. In the same moment, the limb cupping his backside turns slicker yet, coating itself in a viscous sheath, even as one final tentacle creeps up his thigh to curl at last, delicately, around his straining prick.

Pushed to the edge, teetering above an abyss as uncharted as the ocean depths, Javert finds himself trapped, unable to fall forward. And if he were able to give in, what then? Would this Aboleth of darkness leave them be, or would it only continue to plague them? There is no way of knowing, but before Javert can get even a little satisfaction, Valjean freezes. It seems to take all his willpower, but in that moment even the many arms stop moving.

“Javert,” Valjean grits out. “Are you—are you well?”

The _ Capitaine_, unable to answer for the tentacle filling his mouth, shoots the siren a withering glance but nods. 

“I cannot stop,” Valjean confesses. “I... Its voice is in my head, and it is so... but I do not want to hurt you.”

Javert blinks, taken aback. He has known Valjean has wanted him, has seen the way the siren eyes him sometimes, and he had thought it increasingly obvious that the reverse was true as well. Yet time and again, Valjean’s restraint wins out over those baser urges-—and what must it be costing him now, with some dreadful, forgotten thing in his head?

Deliberately, Javert cants his hips against the siren’s as much as he is allowed, until Valjean’s eyes soften with a hunger and a want that are entirely his own. He lowers his head back to Javert’s neck, kissing and sucking at the pulse there, just as the _ Capitaine _grows conscious of a press against his entrance, followed by his body’s yielding. 

The slide of the limb inside is too slippery to be painful, too large to feel natural, and most frustratingly of all, too lacking in friction to finish him. The suckers curled over Javert’s arousal caress and tease, carrying him so close without ever quite getting him there—and Javert would move if he could, would abandon dignity for haphazardly rutting against Valjean’s solid weight, but he is thwarted before he can even begin to try by the many limbs holding him fast. Instead, there is nothing to do but pant in harsh, uneven breaths as the pleasure is wrung from him slowly. 

Over Valjean’s skin, a strange, eerie phosphorescence begins to flicker, until Javert is enveloped by pulses of blue-green light. Then, the hot, inhuman flesh presses harder inside him, turning its hundreds of questing suckers against walls of taut muscle. It is possible Javert will be driven mad by this—it is too much, the tip sinking deeper with his every shudder—and then it seems to reach his very core. 

A muffled cry escapes him as that most terrible and tantalizing of appendages brushes against a point at his center, a point which turns Javert’s veins electric and his bones to jelly. It presses harder, more insistent in its attentions, and Javert cannot long contain the sound he makes as he spends in long, agonized spurts across Valjean’s stomach.

The relief of release sweeps over him, and Javert’s head falls back against the raft. Slowly, the tentacle slides from his mouth, lolling over his shoulder instead. The _ Capitaine _ looks up to see Valjean bent over him, eyes still black as they gaze at him with warring desire and concern. He wonders vaguely if now he will perish, torn apart by Valjean and the aberration possessing him, but he is too hazy to care. Instead, the _ Capitaine’s _eyes drift closed, and darkness takes him.

* * *

It is morning, and Javert blinks himself into alertness. Above, the sky is blue and free of clouds, the azure water a perfect mirror. The _ Capitaine _sits upright from where he makes his bed on the raft and tosses the hair from his face. Looking around, he sees that everything is as he left it. He is dressed, his tailcoat stretched out beneath him like a bedsheet. Why, then, is he uneasy?

The dream of the night before lingers, strange and distorted, like a dim and obfuscated memory. Javert shakes it off as he does all nightmares, putting it down to some mistaken thing he ate, and soon enough Valjean appears with both fish and tidings of the day. The siren’s gaze is downturned and circles sag below his eyes, but it is unmistakably an ichthian tail in the water below him. Yes, Javert concludes, it was a very strange dream indeed.

It is not until Valjean has gone that it occurs to the _ Capitaine _he is in a state of rather more discomfort than is usual, even considering the sparse living conditions the raft supplies. A cursory examination is quick to tell him why: there are bruises encircling his wrists, and in the right light one can almost fancy them to take the shape of fingers.

The notion gives Javert pause.

Slowly, he rolls up the hem of his breeches.

At first, Javert is prepared to berate himself for being a fool. He would do better to go about his duties than to give sway to such harebrained notions. Yet then he shifts, and the light changes, and a sharp intake of breath is Javert’s only outward indication that he is suddenly reeling.

Firmly, but with a foreboding tightness in his gut, Javert unrolls the material and tucks it back into his boot. He thinks it is better that he not see, and look as little as he can upon the line of reddish, spherical marks which speak of things inexpressible.


End file.
